


Magic

by flamewarrior



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, First Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-09
Updated: 2005-11-09
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:03:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamewarrior/pseuds/flamewarrior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Draco have a Midsummer party. Ginny notices how the guests interpret the invitation request and notices someone in a new light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magic

The night air is scented with nicotiana and honeysuckle as I walk up the steps of the manor house, Will o' the Wisps lighting the way. Not that they're needed in truth. Although Wiltshire is a long way south of Hogwarts, midsummer still leaves the sky pale and the earth caressed by the sun's nocturnal light.

Yes, I'm feeling lyrical this evening. Yes, a Weasley, feeling lyrical. Don't mock. I'm wearing a raw silk russet robe under my deep blue velvet cloak; I have jasmine flowers in my hair, threaded through and through the Charmed curls. That's how lyrical I'm feeling.

I reach the top of the steps and Harry greets me with a hug and a peck on both cheeks, a dandelion casually tucked behind his left ear, relaxed contrast to the tailored robes of sea green. Draco takes my hand, bows and ghosts his lips over my fingers, quite the lord of the manor. Which, of course, he is. His robes are pale blue and green in the sheerest fabric, open to his breastbone, shimmering like dragonfly wings. A winding stem of honeysuckle trails across his chest and around his neck, wanton blossoms sprawling on his pale skin, vivid against his hair.

Their welcome, their duty as hosts, complete, they turn to the next guest walking up the steps as I enter the doors. Sunflowers sway in a non-existent breeze all down the hallway. A house-elf with sweet honesty wrapped around its ears takes my cloak and directs me to the ballroom where the other guests are gathered. I stand at the entrance, not wanting yet to meet others, to enter into conversation, not yet. I am in the mood to observe.

The ballroom is bright with colour; all the guests have done their best to comply with the request upon the invitation. I see Pansy, robe iridescent purple, the flowers for which she was named pinned to each side of her tightly styled hair. She never did have much imagination. Padma, a single passionflower tied high in her hair, waltzing with Seamus. Oh, Seamus, shamrock? Dear me.

I smile as I see Hermione and Ron. I haven't always got on with Hermione, but she and Ron were made for each other. She has daisies, like little stars, dotted in her hair, and Ron has a single sprig of broomflowers in his lapel. I smile again. I wonder if I should tell him that broom is a woman's flower? Or tell Hermione that daisies represent innocence? But she's bound to know already. Has Hermione ever been innocent? I suppose, in her way, she always has. And she certainly has simple tastes - as I said, she and Ron were made for each other - but simple and elegant, now she's a woman.

I have to smother a snort when I catch sight of Lavender Brown, half-hidden behind a pillar, drink in hand, making eyes at some (no doubt financially well-endowed) chinless wonder. She's wearing stephanotis, blossom upon blossom, so many I can hardly see her hair at all. Does she really think anyone would believe _she'll_ need calming on her wedding night?

Blaise and Millicent prance into view, dancing an extremely over the top tango despite the musicians still turning out a waltz tune. I smile again. Blaise has a gladiolus woven into his hair and another attached to the front of his orange and gold robes, camp creature that he is. Millicent, herself never a shrinking violet, has rosebuds studded through her shining, curling locks, rosebuds stitched into her gauzy robes, even rosebuds on the toes of her shoes and a single rose stem, petals the colour of blood, clasped between her teeth. If anyone was ever going to have the motto "too much is never enough" it'd be her. Well, her or Draco.

I grin and scan the room for other familiar faces. Snape is engaged in serious conversation with Remus and Tonks. Remus has gone for the obvious, and has wolfsbane on his collar. Tonks, sweet, sweet Tonks, has lupins attached to her wrist. So romantic under all that awkward tomboy briskness. I smile again as I catch sight of the back of Snape's head. He has two belladonna flowers attached to the ribbon tying back his hair. I truly enjoy his dry wit now; verbal sparring as an adult and an equal is far more to my taste than being humiliated as his student.

I look around again, taking in Dean, serious and every inch the artist, cala lily in hand; Cho Chang, ridiculous tiger lily behind her ear; Crabbe with lavender on his lapel (Lavender? I wonder.) talking to Goyle who has a sprig of rosemary in flower behind his ear. Who does Goyle want to remember? Or is he asking someone else to remember him? I never have worked those two out. At all.

And I've had enough of standing indoors. I'm in no mood for conversation, no mood for drinking and dancing. I'm in the mood for scented breezes and gardens under midnight shadows. I slip back into the hallway and into an empty room where french windows stand open to the night. Escape. I step out into the cooling night air, take off my shoes and press my bare feet into the lawn. I walk over the grass, the sounds of the party lost beneath the rustle of my skirts and the crying of peacocks. I stand still and close my eyes, breathing in the sweetness of the night, feeling the breeze upon my cheek, upon my chest.

I open my eyes to the sky and see the moon, almost full, high above the distant trees. So beautiful. This is magic. It takes my breath away, and I wonder who or what we think we are, we Wizarding folk, with our wands and our potions and our spells and the petty uses we put them to. Can we really call what we do, what we are, magic compared to this?

I stand and let the moonlight and the light of the few bright planets I can see and the last pale memory of the sun's midsummer light wash over me. I feel the earth beneath my feet and suddenly I'm running, my hair rushing out behind me, skirts clutched up in my hands, whooping to the moon and the night. A tall yew hedge rises before me, an open archway at its centre, and I head for it, giggling and breathless.

The sight that meets me makes me halt and my breath catches in my throat. I am standing in a rose garden, bounded on all sides by yew hedges, a fountain at its centre, sparkling drops of water falling like crystals. And looking into the water at the fountain's base is you. Your white robe, your pale skin, your silky hair all glow in the moonlight. Are you human? For a moment, I am not sure. Then I see the flowers in your hair. Moonflowers. Pale and open and pure. Just like you.

I walk towards you, letting my skirts fall from my hands, aware of every inch of my skin. I'm standing right beside you, but still you look down at the water. I turn my head to look too. The moon's reflection is shining in the water, broken by the falling drops into a kaleidoscope of white and black.

"What can you see?" I whisper, but my voice is still far too loud.

You turn your face towards me then.

"Beauty," you say, and your fingers touch my cheek.

I turn my face towards you too and our noses are almost touching. You tilt your head and now it is our mouths that touch, your fingers curling around my face. Our kiss is tender and delicate and it burns me, deep, deep.

"Luna." My voice is barely a breath.

"Magic," you say, and your lips are upon mine and your arm is around my waist and your tongue is sweet and soft and commanding in my mouth. And I think, yes, this is magic. This.


End file.
